


The Prowling Game

by CaptainDegenerate



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (Don't sue me please), Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Dark Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), F/M, Murder Mystery, Thriller, Yes I am blatantly ripping off Silence of the Lambs; Sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDegenerate/pseuds/CaptainDegenerate
Summary: Trying to solve a murder case with nothing but cryptic clues turns out to be too much of a challenge. So much so that you end up turning to unexpected places for help.What better way to get inside the mind of a murderer than to learn from one?ON INDEFINITE HIATUS. BLACK LIVES MATTER.
Relationships: Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader, Levi/Reader
Comments: 186
Kudos: 405





	1. Something to Prove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reader character has a default name in this fic as well as a default nickname derived from the default name. If this bothers you, you're more than welcome to copy-paste the chapters into a text editor and use search-replace to switch them out for ones of your liking!

”So, uh… Miss…”

”Reader. Detective Reader.”

”Miss Reader. Your request is so unusual I can’t grant or deny it by myself. I’ll have to relay it to the committee-”

“Listen here,” you sigh. “We have three victims so far-”

The pager starts beeping in your pocket. You quickly stump out your cigarette and reach for the device. Checking the message, you sigh.

“Make that four. Four victims, and the people at the top aren’t batting an eye. I need help, and with the pitiful amount of funding and resources this case has got, I have to stoop to finding that help elsewhere. I need to consult him and if you can’t make that happen, you’re more incompetent than I thought. Excuse me.”

You slam the receiver back in its place and take a deep breath. Looking around your pitifully sized apartment, the tobacco stains on the walls, the worn-out furniture with that horrible, floral pattern, the outdated TV and curtains matching the couch and armchair.

You should really redecorate this place. Five years you’ve lived here and it still doesn’t feel like home.

But the furniture and curtains are a heritage from Aunt Mary and you know your mom will kick a fuss if you throw them away.

As you step out to the dim, busy street in Dilworth and locate your old, trusty Ford Escort, you already feel apprehensive about this new murder.

You don’t know a lot about it. All Jean paged you was _“New Case. Clanton Park.”_

The location doesn’t surprise you. Nothing good ever happens in Clanton Park after dark, though you don’t know how long this particular body has been there.

You drive through the city, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. It’s a typical Thursday night. You see clubgoers, tipsy couples, some young men with hunched shoulders and hands pushed into their pockets, ready to get defensive at anyone who asks too many questions.

It’s early evening. The small layer of snow is nothing short of usual for late January. The first murder happened just after New Year’s, and the consensus is that the first victim, shot to death, was murdered when she was because the fireworks worked as good conceal for the sound that inevitably ensued when the perpetrator emptied a whole magazine of bullets into various parts of her body.

So far, 1989 hasn’t been a good year for you. Obviously, with a string of murders and you being appointed at the helm of the case. Normally, you would not be averse to having complete authority over a case, but this one is different.

They appointed you this case to get you out of the way, and to direct any angry loved ones asking why more isn’t done to catch the murderer in your direction while Woermann, that infuriating little rat, is gatekeeping funds and manpower, without a doubt because that old bastard Darius Zackly is telling him to.

And as for why he has ordered so, you have your suspicions.

You see the flashing lights of blue and red before you even curve out to the park. There are half a dozen police cars parked close to the Irwin Creek Greenway, and a large section across the small river is taped off with familiar yellow and black.

You step out of the car and it doesn’t take long for Jean to spot you and walk over.

“Vivi! You were fast.”

“It’s not like I had anything better to do,” you mutter and gratefully accept the takeaway cup of coffee he gives you.

“You should at least try to have a life outside this case. Go out sometime,” Jean tries as you basically chug down the coffee. It’s going to be another all-nighter again by the look of things.

Jean, your assistant and partner, became a detective a couple of years after you. He’s a bit younger, in his late twenties, with carefree light hair and his suit a little wrinkly and loose as usual.

“How’d they find this one?”

“Someone was walking their dog and found her. Waved down Sasha and Connie when they happened to be driving by.”

You nod. You finish the coffee and throw the cup in a nearby bin. You adjust your coat and pull on a pair of rubber gloves given to you by a technician before you’re admitted inside the taped area.

“So, who is the victim?”

“Take a wild guess,” Jean sighs.

“A young woman of color who works as a prostitute?” you offer.

“Bingo.”

Just as the previous ones.

You’re led to the bank of the Irwin Creek. There are a few investigators around the body, you notice the familiar, blonde head of Historia Reiss.

The victim looks even younger than the previous ones, and for a fleeting moment, you fear she might be one of those underage streetwalkers you see at the station sometimes.

“African-American female, estimated to be 18 to 20 years old,” Historia starts listing to you as you kneel beside the body and take a closer look. “Cause of death: severance of the carotid artery. She’s been dead for probably around 20 hours. At first glance, it doesn’t look like she put up much of a fight.”

Looking at the deep cut on her throat, you can tell she was murdered with one, clean slash.

“Anything else?”

“Well, you might find this interesting,” Historia tells you and circles over to the legs of the victim. She gently pulls up her minuscule skirt to show you that a patch of her skin is missing from the inner thigh.

“We don’t know if it was removed before or after her death.”

You frown. This must be the cryptic message part. Each victim so far has had something odd about them, be it a coded message, a nonsensical phrase, a series of numbers. Things you’ve yet to crack.

“Anything on the scene?”

“No. Seems like she was murdered elsewhere and dumped on-site, much like the other victims.”

You sigh.

“Document everything and get her to Armin. Tell him to do the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning.”

You doubt he’s still at work this late.

“Alright.”

You look over the victim’s face. Her eyes are closed, and she looks peaceful. Not like someone who knows they’re going to die before they’re old enough to even buy their first drink.

Before you identify her, you can’t start tracking down her movements.

You take one last look at the woman and then move away, leaving Historia and her team to handle the rest.

Jean follows you as you walk towards your car and throw out the rubber gloves.

“You’re not going home are you,” he sighs. You turn to give him a peeved blink.

“How could I go home when there’s just been another murder added to my case?” you ask. Jean winces.

“The case won’t go anywhere and there isn’t really much you can do now. Tomorrow, you’ll at least have an autopsy and they’ve hopefully identified the victim.”

“Can’t hear you over the sound of me not going home,” you sing-song and hop in your car.

Jean sighs and watches you go.

When he arrives to work the next morning, he finds you exactly where he expects to; sleeping on your desk with your arms folded into a pillow, the case files scattered all over you.

Another fruitless night of trying to find something, anything, to tie the murders together. It’s obvious they’re all done by the same entity. The targets are the same demographic and there’s always some cryptic clue left behind that neither you nor Jean can wrap your head around.

But the bodies are always found in different spots and the methods of killing are always different. It’s almost as if the killer is trying to impress you. Show you his impressive killing repertoire.

Jean covers your bare arms with his coat and then goes to retrieve the initial autopsy report from Armin. By the time you wake up, he’s already compiled a case file for you.

You must have fallen asleep somewhere along the lines. You’re lucky Woermann didn’t see you snoozing on the clock.

“What would I do without you,” you hum with a grateful, albeit tired, smile as he hands you the case file with a cup of coffee.

“I’m not willing to find out,” he says and sits down at his desk. “We identified the victim. Emily Johns.”

“Fingerprints in our system thanks to possession charges?” That’s how you identified the previous ones.

“Surprisingly enough, no. Ymir asked around and some working girls around Pinecrest recognized her. Said she’s 19 but she could obviously have been lying. They said she’s relatively new.”

You know there’s only so much Ymir can ask without blowing her cover. The rest, you’re going to have to find out alone.

Pinecrest, huh. Not that it surprises you. There’s a reason your undercover cop who’s tasked with luring and arresting men who buy streetwalkers would operate mainly in that area.

You open the file to look over it, and it isn’t until you feel Jean’s eyes lingering on you for longer than usual that you turn to look at him.

“What is it?”

“Well, they called from the bureau. You have your permission.”

-

The drive to Southern Correctional Institution takes well over an hour. Located in the outskirts of a small town called Troy, there’s nothing inviting about the establishment.

Tall, barb-wired fences. A dull-looking grey building in the middle. The frozen grass field, currently empty of prisoners.

You’re admitted inside as you show your badge. A young-looking guard walks you through narrow corridors.

“We’ll allow you your privacy but if something goes wrong, just knock on the door and request assistance. He’ll be cuffed but as per your request, not behind his back.”

“Excellent.”

“Just a fair warning; he’s an eccentric. 13 years in solitary does that to people. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone visit him.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

You’re led to a small room with nothing but a steel table, bolted to the floor, along with two flimsy chairs. There’s nothing on the table aside from a small plastic ashtray that you requested beforehand.

You sit down on one of the chairs and cross your legs. You’re wearing your usual attire of a black suit, white shirt and heels. You gave up your gun upon entrance, and the knowledge that you’re going to be without it makes you a little uneasy.

The guard leaves the room through the only door made of heavy steel with a small window on it for monitoring.

A few minutes later, the inmate is walked in.

The first thing you notice is that he’s much shorter than you anticipated. The second thing is that he looks surprisingly sharp and young considering his age and the fact he’s been here for well over a decade.

His hands are cuffed in front of him, and he looks relaxed when he sits down across from you. Immediately, he places his elbows on the table and tilts his head in contemplation.

When his cold, calculating eyes land on you, you can’t help the small shudder that runs down your spine. He obviously notices because a lazy smirk rises to his lips.

Despite wearing the standard, offensively bright orange jumpsuit, he somehow looks to be more groomed than your standard inmate. His hair is recently cropped and shampooed, it even shines a little in the fluorescent light. His nails are recently clipped and look regularly filed. His skin looks soft and well maintained.

Usually, inmates give up on most grooming at some point. There’s no one who’s going to be impressed by a clean complexion and nice hairdo in these parts. Furthermore, you know he’s been in solitary confinement ever since he was sentenced to life, so there’s no one aside from guards who even see him.

“I’ll be fine. Leave us, please,” you tell the guard. He nods and walks to the door.

“Should you need assistance, just knock on the door. He’s usually calm, though.”

With that, he leaves you alone with one of the most notorious serial killers of the past decade.

You gather your nerves and meet his eyes, this time refusing to let yourself shudder or break the eye-contact.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“It was no issue.”

You’re a bit taken aback by his polite response. His voice is clear but just as cold as his eyes.

“They told me that an officer was seeking an appointment with me. I was intrigued so I decided to hear what you have to say. There’s no need to thank me.”

You lick your lips. You wonder if you’re crazy after all like Woermann and Jean insisted. Your boss chewed you up good for this. You can still hear his raised voice ringing in your ears.

_“What will the public say if they find out that our forces cooperate with terrorists and serial killers to solve something as insignificant as-”_

_“As serial murders?”_

_“Do_ not _give me that attitude, Reader, you should be glad that you’re finally given a case-”_

_“A severely underfunded case with zero leads, sir.”_

_“Nonsense! You should feel honored you got anything at all! You got in on a quota, you should be grateful for all this city has done for you.”_

_“I would have gotten in even without the quota, I was just assigned to the quota so they could avoid hiring more women and people of-”_

_“I have no time for your unfounded libel. Go, then, to see him if you think that helps you, but you had better keep this from the papers.”_

_“Understood, sir.”_

“My name is Vivi Reader,” you introduce yourself. You extend a hand, but he doesn’t take it. He gives it a narrow-eyed look and then ignores it altogether.

“Is Vivi short for Vivian?”

Mostly to do something with the hand you’re offering him and to get away from the awkward position of an unreciprocated handshake, you grab the ID card hanging from your neck to show him.

He reads the name and hums.

“Victoria. Vivi is a rather unusual nickname for that.”

“Thank my dad.”

“I’d rather not.” He leans back on the chair and crosses his legs. He links his fingers on his lap and gives you a wary look.

“Why are you here, then, Victoria?”

You consider telling him to not use your full name. You never liked it and you feel out of place with it. But you decide against it. At this moment, you need to make him cooperative. You take out his case file from your leather suitcase and show it to him.

“Levi Ackerman, 38 years old, one of the most notorious serial killers of the last few decades. You murdered sixteen city officials during the course of seven months and sent the police on a wild goose chase for another six until they tracked you down and arrested you. You would have gone straight to the death row, but you struck a plea deal by admitting to all sixteen murders and revealing the locations of the four bodies that were still missing.”

“How informed you are, Victoria,” he says, blatantly disinterested and unimpressed.

“You were known for leaving cryptic clues all around the city. On the bodies, on their unrelated belongings, you sent them to newspapers, the police had their hands full cracking the code.”

“Surely you didn’t come here just to recap my crimes to me. Because if you did I’ll have you know I’m well aware of them.”

You roll your eyes a little and reach for your pocket. You place a cigarette between your lips and light it with a sigh. Immediately, Levi’s nose wrinkles.

“Smoking is a disgusting habit. I would advise you to quit it before it affects your health.”

“I did, for five years. But I’ve found myself picking up the habit again after being assigned my most recent case.”

You take out four pictures from your suitcase and line them up in front of Levi. The pictures of the faces of the dead women.

“There’s a new killer in the city. He also leaves messages that we can’t comprehend yet.”

You take a drag out of your cigarette, blow it out into the ceiling and then meet his calm eyes.

“I need your help catching this guy. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why would a police officer-“

“I’m a detective,” you find yourself cutting in, just a touch on the defensive side.

“Fine. Why would a detective need the help of a convicted criminal to solve a case? They had a whole division after me, any more would just have been a crowd.”

“They don’t, this time,” you admit. “It’s me and my partner. That’s it.”

“Why would they assign such pitiful amounts of manpower to catch a serial killer?”

He’s not buying it at all. You sigh deeply and take out a full-body image of the first victim, Kay Washington.

“I think you can tell if you just look at this for long enough.”

Levi takes the picture. His eyes slide over the victim, her tank top, short skirt and the track marks on her arms and thighs.

“So, they’re young prostitutes and probably junkies to boot. They don’t have loved ones with connections, their death isn’t a major political event. If anything, people might be secretly happy the streets are getting ‘cleaned’.”

“Yeah. They’re young women of color, three of them are Black, one is Hispanic. All streetwalkers, all but one drug addicts with former possession charges. Their cases are hardly on top of the priority list. Which is why I need your help.”

Levi raises an eyebrow and sets the picture down. His eyes travel lazily on you, from head to toe, memorizing every single little detail on the way.

“You’re obviously a career woman, Victoria,” he points out. “Which is why you’re going above and beyond to solve this case no one expects you to and many secretly wish you not to. You're obviously trying to prove something to someone. What are you trying to prove?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job is to try to catch the killer using the tools you’re given. It’s not a part of your job to drive one and a half hours here to gain assistance from a serial killer. You’re doing it because you want to prove something to someone. What do you want to prove and to whom?”

“Why are you asking this? This has nothing to do with the case-”

“It was you who came here to discuss the case, Victoria. I’m simply here to pass time. I have no obligation to stay professional with you,” Levi says. He clicks his tongue and watches you smoke, your eyes hard but a little puzzled on his.

He’s here just to pass time, huh. You didn’t think he would just agree to help you out of the goodness of his heart. He’s been in solitary confinement for thirteen years. He’s bored. He wants to play.

“What did you do before you decided to be a serial killer, Mr. Ackerman?”

“I studied criminal psychology.”

Why are you not surprised?

“Well, are you going to help me or not?” you ask and put out the cigarette. “No one else is going to visit you here and you have the rest of your life to spend in your cell doing absolutely nothing. I could offer you a change in routine.”

“If you think you have the upper hand because of that, you’re mistaken,” Levi informs you. He plucks a small spec of dust off his uniform and gets on his feet. He knocks on the door to alert the guard.

“Come back next week. I’ll have decided if I want to help you by then. Goodbye, Victoria.”

You watch him walk away with the guard without as much as looking back.

Eccentric, indeed.

You leave the prison, feeling immediately better when you have your gun back on you. As you walk to the mostly empty parking lot to your car, you get a sudden rush down your back. As if you’re being watched.

You turn to look at the ominous building, and you could swear you see a figure, looking down at you through the barred window in the East.

You can’t make out who it is, but you don’t need to. It’s as if Levi is seeing you off like a gentleman.

You’ll be back. You both know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's me again! This idea has been swimming in the back of my head forever now, and I just got the planning to a point where I could write and post the first chapter.
> 
> Now, I have a lot of things planned plot-wise and I'll keep planning them, but I probably won't post more chapters for this until I'm done with the planning and gotten 77 Gunshots to its home stretch.
> 
> That being said, I hope you're excited for a murder mystery and a very, VERY interesting and dark relatioship with Levi. And yes, before you ask, I've read and seen Silence of the Lambs multiple times and I took some inspiration from the dynamic between Hannibal and Clarice because shit's interesting.
> 
> And if you recognized any of the places mentioned in the chapter it's because I'm actually basing this on a real city. Kudos to those who can name it!
> 
> I'm always at my most insecure at the start of a new fic because I just don't know if people care about the idea I have. So, if you're intrigued and want to see more, please let me know by adding a comment!


	2. Small Town in Mississippi

”Excuse me, I have just woken up and I’m not sure if I heard right. I must have hallucinated. Surely my partner did not just say she wants to go back to the prison and consult a serial killer because that would just be extremely dumb-”

“Jean. Shut it, or I’ll drown you in paperwork,” you mutter as you lean over the computer, the clunky keys make a sound so loud each time you press them that Jean has to raise his voice a little as he speaks to you.

Stupid bulky machines, you’d do so much better if you could just use a typewriter like a normal person. But Woermann, ever the charmer, decided it’s time to move on to the modern era and file reports electronically.

Well, that’s one way to spend taxpayer dollars. On loud, chunky machines that are extremely inconvenient to use.

In the dim light of the computer office (the only one of its kind in CMPD), you light a cigarette and gulp down the rest of your coffee that’s now already cooled down to unpleasantly lukewarm.

Without minding Jean’s presence, you pull your feet up on the office chair and cross your legs. You twirl around with a thoughtful huff, the cigarette lazily hanging from your lips.

“I kept my mouth shut because I thought you’d let it go once you’ve seen for yourself what a terrible idea this is, but seems like I was mistaken. Why on Earth would you want to go back there? The guy’s a psycho.”

You sigh and scratch your head with the hand you’re holding your cigarette in. You got home so late last night you passed out without showering, and you overslept this morning. Thus, you feel relatively gross.

“He’s the closest thing to an expert on serial killings we have. With the pitiful amount of manpower we have, recruiting him could help,” you explain with a sigh.

“He’s a serial killer,” Jean reminds you.

“Thanks for reminding me, Jean, it completely left my mind since you last said it two minutes ago. I thought he was in prison because being locked up in a windowless room is a dear hobby of his-”

“You’re insufferable sometimes, did you know that?” Jean sighs. He turns to walk to the door. “I need some more coffee.”

“Two cubes of sugar, no cream,” you call to him absent-mindedly as you roll your chair back to the desk and grab a new set of papers with a sigh.

Fucking Woermann, making you retroactively type in all the cases after you went through the trouble of writing them with a typewriter and filing them according to protocol.

You casually flip your glasses down from your head back on your nose and take out the first file.

_Victim #1_

_Name: Kay Washington_

_Race: Black_

_Age: 22_

_Cause of Death: Bullet wound in the temporal arteritis_

_Time of Death: 01-01-1989, around 1:20 a.m._

_Body Discovered: 01-01-1989, around 6:25 a.m., in Second Ward District_

_Notable details: Multiple gunshots all around body, caused when victim still alive. Words “1844 – a gunshot for the little bitch” scribbled on the forehead with a red, permanent marker._

_-_

_Victim #2_

_Name: Yocelin Rodriguez_

_Age: 24_

_Race: White – Hispanic_

_Cause of Death: Blunt force injury and subsequent cardiogenic shock_

_Time of Death: 01-06-1989, around 3:10 a.m._

_Body Discovered: 01-09-1989, around 3:40 p.m., Brooklyn District_

_Notable Details: Message left in victim’s pocket. “Look for the way named after the fourth and the seventh, the building of precous metal, yellow plus blue. Pick the year the unsinkable happened. The Lord will show you the way.”_

_-_

_Victim #3_

_Name: Olivia Brown_

_Age: 24_

_Race: Black_

_Cause of Death: Asphyxiation by a fishing line_

_Time of Death: 01-14-1989, around 2:30 a.m._

_Body Discovered: 01-14-1989, around 12:10 p.m._

_Notable Details: A transparent sheet of plastic found on the person with a red dot on the upper-right corner and text “This way up, the 1967 one ought to do it” written at the bottom. The fishing line left embedded in the neck, bore no fingerprints._

_-_

_Victim #4_

_Name: Emily Johns_

_Age: 19_

_Race: Black_

_Cause of Death: Severance of the carotid artery_

_Time of Death: 01-16-1989, around 12:45 a.m._

_Body Discovered: 01-16-1989, around 8:40 p.m._

_Notable details: A square patch of skin removed from inner thigh, not found on the person or surroundings._

-

You finish typing up the last report and sit back with a sigh. Even though it’s still early morning, sleep left your eyes the moment you opened them. You’ve been working too much, you know it, yet you can’t seem to find the setting in your brain to tone it down.

You flinch when a bit of hot ash falls on the back of your hand from your cigarette, and you hurry to put it out. You close the computer and grab your suit jacket from the back of the chair just to leisurely throw it over your shoulder. You walk out to the corridor and give the mustard-yellow floor a disgusted look.

You always hated the color scheme of this building. Muddled yellows and browns, no real brightness or contrast anywhere. Ugly and mundane, homogenous, void of any kind of impact. Just like most public buildings.

You walk past small, crammed offices of detectives and supervisors. You hear the ringing of phones, muffled speech, shuffling paper. A soundscape very familiar to you since you started working here eight years ago.

You were promoted as a part of your city’s “inclusion act”, which was launched five years ago by Mayor Yeager in his attempt to polish your city’s image and make it more appealing to young, liberally minded and tech-savvy people who were proving to be insanely profitable.

Your promotion was not faster than normal as you entered the force at 24 with a criminal justice degree and adequate general training from the police academy, as well as a two-year specialization period gunning for the homicide and robbery division. Furthermore, you already took and passed the test to receive a detective license.

Usually, officers of your educational background are hired directly to detective positions or required to work in the field for half a year to a year maximum. You, however, worked in the field for three years before getting your precious promotion, and even then, despite your stain-free career history and high competence, some thought you got what you have as a handout.

The token detective.

You march into your plain office and pull up the squeaky blinds. You look out to the non-assuming street, the half-empty parking lot and the few people walking in and out of the police station.

You came to Charlotte to get away from your hometown. Not because you necessarily hate where you come from, you doubt you ever could, but because it had so many memories you felt like it could not hold any more. Such a long time in such a small town, it felt like every street, every person, every building had a memory and connotation attached to it.

The shop that sells the porno mags that the boys from your class always gathered to gawk at after school. The park where people would get up and subtly walk closer to their parked bikes or reach to clutch onto the straps of their purses whenever you walked by with your brother. The street where you beat the shit out of Kevin Anderson for pulling on your hair one time too many. The tree you would climb with Lily Nguyen to eat some peach-flavored popsicles during the scorching summer days.

When you graduated from high school, you wanted a new beginning. Some new memories that weren’t tied to a small town in the middle of the endless swamps of Mississippi. So, you packed your bags and left, and you haven’t been back since.

Here, you’re not the daughter of so-and-so, the sister of the boy who got in trouble so many times it’s as if trouble looked for him wherever he went, the ex of that one guy whose father kicked her out of his house in a very loud fashion because she wasn’t _“the proper kinda girl and you know damn straight what I mean”_.

God knows you’re still carrying traumas from that whole incident and the subsequent rumor mill. You doubt the old housewives have stopped bringing it up at least once a month as they gossip on the aisles of the small general store.

But it’s also the town where you grew up, shielded and protected by your family and friends. The town where your brother taught you how to ride a bike. Where you’d fall asleep to the sound of your mother’s voice, singing you somber jazz songs from her youth. Her favorite was always Billie Holiday, but you never cared for her. She always sounded like she was in anguish and it made you feel bad.

It’s the town where you got your first love letter, slipped into your locker. The yellow post-it that said nothing but _“Prom? -Marty”_. You can still smile at the memory, even if it ended in disaster.

The way Lily held you all night and stroked your hair on that moldy, half-rotten dock that oversaw the quaint Crystalhill bayou as you cried your eyes off when Marty left you after the incident with his father.

A town that could be so loving, yet so incomprehensibly cruel. But the longer you spend here in Charlotte, the more you understand they don’t need all that history or the rumors to come to a conclusion.

They see you, and they think less than. They see you, and they think incompetent, irrational, pushy.

And to a degree, they’re right. You had to be pushy to get this far, and there’s nothing Woermann, or anyone else can do to make you let this opportunity go. You’re a hard career woman, and they will see what you’re capable of when you solve this case.

_“It’s not a part of your job to drive one and a half hours here to gain assistance from a serial killer. You’re doing it because you want to prove something to someone. What do you want to prove and to whom?”_

You pause as Levi’s words suddenly appear in your mind and snap you back from the void of memories that want to cling to you like quicksand. You realize you’re clutching the string of the blinds with all your strength, and that your breathing is elevated.

You release a long sigh and let go of the string. The blinds slam down with a loud crash, blocking out the pale sunlight.

You sit down at your cluttered desk and lean your forehead into your hand. You breathe out and start relaxing your muscles little by little. You really ought to stop spiraling down that path. It’s not worth it.

No wonder Levi picked up on it so quickly. Your face probably screams of some kind of complex.

With a resigned sigh, you get up and set course towards Hange’s lab.

Forget about the humid small town in Mississippi. Let it go and work.

When you get home that night, you take one, exhausted look at your messy apartment, the dirty dishes and clothes scattered all around, the empty fridge and cupboards. You empty the crumbs at the bottom of your cereal box into a bowl along with the splash of milk you have left, resigning yourself to not having breakfast tomorrow.

You eat while idly staring at a quiz show on television, take a shower and fall asleep on the couch, hair still wet and wearing nothing but your towel, and the last thought you have is the plea for dreamless sleep.

-

This time, when you walk in the room, Levi’s already waiting for you. Sitting in his chair with his hands cuffed before him, he looks just as groomed and proper as usual, save for the orange jumpsuit.

You step inside with your suitcase and sit down.

“Am I late?” you ask.

“A bit,” Levi answers.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not an issue. Feel free to get comfortable.” He nods at your suit jacket. You’re a little taken aback.

“Comfortable? Why?”

“I have decided to help you, so I reckon we’ll be here for a while,” he announces. Your eyebrows shoot up. You haphazardly wipe a curl of your hair off your forehead and focus your full attention on him.

“You have? May I ask why?”

Levi gives you a long look. He raises a foot and rests it over his knee and nods towards your jacket again.

“Please, Victoria, get comfortable before we start.”

You know why he’s doing this. He wants to control the room. You’re in his domain, so he wants ownership of the space. For now, you might be better off giving him a little bit of leeway.

Were this an interrogation, you wouldn’t yield, but you’re trying to make him into an accomplice and thus, you remove your jacket and hang it over the back of the chair.

Levi looks contented.

“Now, as for your question, I read a few newspaper articles about the murders and my interest was piqued.”

“Why is that?”

“Some imbecile from The Charlotte Observer said the murders remind him of mine. I was irked.”

“You want to distinguish between yourself and this killer, whom you view to act out of a lowlier motive than yours?”

“That’s a slightly misguided version of the truth, but it’s close enough.”

You hum. Your fingers itch a little bit. You’re craving.

“Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Ackerman?”

“I do, but you may go ahead. It will probably improve your mood and help you relax in my presence.”

“I am quite relaxed.”

“You’re not. You’re bouncing your leg on the ball of your foot, your hands are fiddling, your shoulders are slightly raised, your jaws are tight. You’re on high alert.”

As Levi speaks, his eyes follow his words, pausing meaningfully on each part of your body. He’s observant, you’ve noticed as much, but it still catches you by surprise.

You sigh and force your body to relax a little.

“I am a little on edge,” you admit. “My partner and supervisor don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Yet they are not the people whose lives are in danger nor the people whose career is on the chopping block for this,” Levi assesses as you light a cigarette.

You glance at him but say nothing. Instead, you delve out your case folder and place it on the table.

“We have four murders so far. Do you want to read through the files yourself or should I brief you?”

“It’ll be easier if I read it and pick out the relevant details,” Levi says. You nod and open the folder for him. You put the case files, which you printed from the computer this morning, in a pile in front of him.

You watch him quietly and smoke as his sharp eyes dart over the papers. His height may be on the shorter side, but he’s otherwise very pleasant to look at.

Had he not turned to crime, he would most likely have had an easy life of working for the police, probably marrying a good-looking woman and having his 3.17 children, golden retriever and a nice house in Montibello.

Instead, he went on a killing spree and murdered sixteen people. Not any people, either, but people in high places. City council members, bureaucrats, even a couple of high-ranking police chiefs got killed. Even you heard about the murders even though you were still living in Mississippi.

He was captured by a highly esteemed FBI agent called Erwin Smith, who swiftly declined the medal of honor and city key offered to him, and shortly retired after the case. You don’t know what he’s doing nowadays, but the way he always seemed very reluctant to speak publicly of the case stuck out to you.

It’s as if he was in it for the chase, not the prize.

Levi’s arrest and subsequent trial were highly publicized and televised. His lack of remorse, calm attitude and polite manner of speech caught the interest of many. He never quite reached the John Wayne Gacy or Richard Ramirez level of fame, but he had people interested in him and his deeds in true crime circles.

“Do you receive letters from admirers, Mr. Ackerman?” you ask quite suddenly. Levi raises his eyes from the files, and to your surprise, he’s calm and doesn’t look the least off guard by your question.

“What do you mean by admirers?”

“I’ve encountered a fair share of women who feel oddly attracted to criminals, especially serial killers. They show up in courtrooms sometimes. I once had one call my office and request a printed copy of one person’s mugshot. So, I was just wondering if you get those kinds of admirers.”

Levi gives you a long, bland look, figuring you out. He then turns his eyes back to the files.

“I’ve stopped opening my mail from people I don’t know. But yes, I did get those kinds of letters.”

“You didn’t like the attention?”

“I found their lack of manners and crude language quite off-putting.”

You’re not surprised. He seems like someone who wants to be in control and treated properly. You watch him finish reading and as he sets the papers back down, you extinguish your cigarette.

“Any first thoughts?”

“What have you gathered about the killer so far?”

“He’s most likely male because a lot of the bodies showed signs of being dragged around and not many women have the muscle mass to do that. He definitely moves by car. He switches neighborhoods constantly, assumedly to avoid focused surveillance. His clues remain uncracked for now.”

“With four murders in less than three weeks, that’s no surprise. I’m actually impressed you have a detailed autopsy and a cohesive case file with multiple tests run on the evidence already.”

You smile a bit. While Woermann is not fond of you, you have a good, friendly relationship with both Hange of the forensics team and Armin, the pathologist of your division. They seem to feel immensely sorry for how little resources you have, and thus have both come through to give you results quickly.

God bless them for that.

“Any thoughts?”

“The clues would paint a picture of someone who wants to feel important. He wants to be thought about and talked about.”

“Do you reckon he didn’t know these kinds of murders would get swept under the rug for the most part?“

“It was most likely a choice. He wasn’t willing to risk getting caught by going after someone more prominent and having half of the local police force and the FBI on his tail. He may gain confidence and get bolder with both his methods and choice of victims later.”

“What do you make of the clues?”

“He wants them to be solved. I would start from the clue on the second victim as it quite obviously points towards a location.“

 _“Look for the way named after the fourth and the seventh, the building of precious metal, yellow plus blue. Pick the year the unsinkable happened. The Lord will show you the way,”_ you read out loud from the file. “The first part is obviously referring to an address of some kind. But what does he mean about picking the year or the lord showing the way?”

“It’s quite obvious he intended the first part to be solved first and then using the later clues to hone in on the specifics. Do you happen to have a map of Charlotte with you?”

“I do not.”

“How troublesome. Please try to come prepared in the future.”

Levi gets up and walks to the door. He knocks on it. The timid-looking guard who escorted you here opens it, and Levi tells him something with a low voice.

You frown as you look at the two. The first time around, the guard who escorted you here looked stern and tough. This one looks much more mellow.

Levi turns to you.

“I’ll be back momentarily.”

He leaves the room with his guard, and you’re left to your own devices. You take the second victim’s file and read through the riddle again.

The way named after the fourth and the seventh. It has to be pointing towards a street. What do you think of when you think of the numbers four and seven?

You scratch your head, but soon give up and instead move to the next clue. The building of precious metal, yellow plus blue. What do you get from yellow and blue?

You take out a notebook and write down _green_. You circle it with a question mark. Precious metal can refer to anything. Gold, silver, platinum. Who knows which one.

Pick the year the unsinkable happened. That’s where the riddle loses you. Why would you need to pick a year? The unsinkable is probably pointing towards _RMS Titanic_ , which sank in 1912.

Where in a building would you come across a number like that?

You bounce your ballpoint pen on the desk, clicking the tip in and out as you do. It wouldn’t make any sense. Unless-

You frown.

As Levi’s escorted back in, he finds you feverishly scribbling on your notebook, so engrossed in your thoughts that you don’t even register he’s back.

He watches you with a quiet fascination for a moment, but then makes his way to the desk and sits back down with a heavy book, titled _National Atlas of the United States._

You flinch a little as he puts it on the table, only now realizing he’s back.

“It’s a hotel,” you say immediately.

“A hotel?” he inquires calmly.

“The unsinkable refers to the year 1912. The only place that would carry numbers like that is a hotel. It’s a room number. _The Lord will show you the way_ is probably something in the room, maybe a religious painting, though my money is on the Bible. All hotels carry one more or less.”

Levi thinks it over and then nods.

“So, I was not mistaken,” he marks to himself.

“About what?”

“Your aptitude for problem-solving. Let’s see, now.”

Levi leaves you to mull over his compliment and instead calmly opens the atlas and shuffles until he finds the map of Charlotte. You watch his thin and delicate index finger place on the glossy paper and start trailing along the maze-like roads with meticulous detail. His eyes methodically glance over each street name.

The sight fascinates you. To think that the gentle hands that are treating the book with such respect are also capable of clutching the handle of a knife just to plunge it in the innards of another human being. It should unnerve you, and to an extent it does, but more than that, it makes you curious.

“Here.” Levi finally pauses and turns the book around to show you something.

“Independence Boulevard?”

“Four and seven. Fourth of July,” Levi says. You nod, it makes sense.

“So, we’re looking for a hotel on the Independence Boulevard, which probably has a precious metal and something related to green on its name,” you list.

“Probably.”

You nod and write down the name of the street.

“In future meetings, what do you want me to bring with me to aid our work?” you ask, getting ready to write a list.

“A detailed and up to date map of Charlotte, all case files including forensics reports, if possible, a copy of the notes themselves,” Levi lists easily. You write everything down and then start getting ready to leave. You doubt you’ll get much further with Levi today.

Only, he’s not content with just letting you go.

He offers you his hand, initiating a handshake as you push your chair back. When you pause to look into his eyes, he looks a little different all of a sudden. Still calm and controlled, but there’s something underneath all that, something dark and alluring. Something ruthless and sadistic, yet unnervingly intrigued by your presence.

Your primal instincts tell you to run. To get up and leave this room before you become so well acquainted with this man that you learn the meaning behind this look.

You ignore that impulse and instead, reach out to take his hand. You note that it’s dry but a little cool. The handshake itself is gentle but very firm.

“I’m going to enjoy this, Victoria.”

As he pulls his hand away, you feel his fingertips brush against the palm of your hand, the touch just a tad too long to be accidental.

You ignore the shudder that runs down your spine and get up to leave.

“Good day.”

His words make you pause at the door. You turn. He wants a proper goodbye, anything else would be rude. You nod.

“Good day, Mr. Ackerman.”

You feel his eyes on your back. When you back out of the parking lot ten minutes later, you glance at the rearview mirror just to see what you already know.

You rip your eyes off the familiar, looming silhouette in the window of the far East side of the building and drive back to the station deep in thought.

The prickling of your skin doesn’t subside until you’re almost back in Charlotte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you're all doing well. I'm glad to finally write another chapter for this after a couple of months. For the time being, I'm focusing mostly on TSASOS and 77G, but hopefully I'll be done with 77G sooner rather than later and I then have time to update this more speedily. I have planned most of the case itself already, so feel free to stay on the lookout for clues ^^
> 
> Serial killer Levi is kinda creepy but maybe we dig that? I love a good darkpair. Either way, I'm eager to hear your thoughts on this chapter. A notification from AO3 always makes my day and honestly, I could use a pick-me-up.
> 
> See you around~!


	3. The Sickly Cat

You park your car and give Jean a wary glance.

Golden Green Hotel.

Once you got back to work after visiting Levi, you started going through all the hotels and motels on Independence Boulevard. It took no time at all to narrow it down to this one given the hints.

“Let’s just wish no one religious has rented room 1912 and found the note,” you tell him tensely. Getting any kind of forensic evidence from the room is useless at this point. It’s been weeks, it’s probably been cleaned more than once since.

Still, you need to try. Historia’s team is bound to arrive shortly.

You get out of the car and walk to the reception. The hotel itself looks neutral enough. It’s not a high scale hotel by any means, but you’ve seen shabbier.

The interior is a little outdated, with some furniture obviously from the 70s, but it doesn’t look too off-putting. You walk up to the receptionist behind her heavy mahogany desk and give her a small smile.

“Afternoon. Detective Reader from CMPD,” you show her your badge, “and here’s my partner Detective Kirstein. We need to confiscate one of your rooms.”

She gives you a long, confused look before sighing deeply as if she doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“Let me get my manager.”

A dozen minutes later, you’re let into Room 1912 as luckily, the guest had already left. It’s still uncleaned, and you give the white splatters on the bedsheets an unimpressed look.

The room is rather small and sports a very dated interior much like the reception hall. The bed is large but looks old and squeaky. The bedside tables are old and dented and the TV is so large even your late Aunt would have gasped. The curtains are heavy and an unappealing pastel mint color.

“By the looks of it Historia’s team won’t be able to discover anything,” you sigh as you pull on a pair of rubber gloves. You open the drawer of one of the bedside tables and find the Bible.

By the looks of it, no one has touched the drawer since because from between the pages, you can see a folded piece of paper.

Feeling a small leap of excitement, you pull it out and rush to take a look.

It’s… Numbers.

Zeroes and ones to be exact, typed in neat rows with a typewriter. You blink, confused, and show it to Jean, who’s curiously peeking over your shoulder.

“What is that?”

“Some kind of code,” you sigh. So, you won’t be left off easy with this, either. You need to find a way to crack the code.

“Come on. Let’s leave Historia to it and go interview the receptionist. Maybe they have security footage.”

They don’t.

You leave the hotel with a weirdly anti-climactic feeling. You got something, but not nearly enough to even make a dent in the case.

You got some information from the receptionist, who remembers the case. The victim came in, rented a room and left the premises not long after.

The receptionist just assumed she took in a client there and moved on. You can’t blame her.

As no security cameras are placed on the parking lot, all you can do is take the tape of the reception desk and hope there’s anything there to give you further clues.

You walk to the parking lot with a scowl on your face. The message had better be a good one after you crack it.

Jean follows closely behind.

“We should step on it,” he says.

“I know.”

You have a meeting scheduled with Woermann and Chief Police Zackly of all people, to give them an update on the case.

As you walk back to your car and yank the door open, something shoots out from under it, into the thick bushes by the sidewalk. You pause and blink.

Jean doesn’t notice it at all and proceeds to go sit in your car. You, however, can’t quite let it go.

“Did you see that?” you ask him. He rolls the window down and peeks out.

“See what?”

“That. Something was hiding under my car.”

“Must’ve been a raccoon or a possum,” he shrugs.

“It didn’t look like one.”

“Then probably a stray cat.”

You look at the bush where the creature ran off to and after a brief moment of contemplation, you slowly approach it.

“Vivi? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jean groans. “It’s just a stray cat. Come on. Woermann will spear our asses if we’re late for the meeting.”

You ignore him and squat in front of the bush. From inside, you can hear hissing. So, it’s a cat.

Maybe you should leave it be. Instead, you call to Jean.

“I have a felt blanket in my trunk. Bring it to me.”

“You’re going to catch the cat?” Jean asks, clearly taken aback. You hear him get out of the car and open the trunk.

You don’t answer. You grab the blanket from him and get ready to catch the cat. It takes a few minutes, but when the cat finally feels cornered and bolts, you manage to throw the blanket on him and trap him.

You hear him hiss and thrash, but the blanket makes sure you don’t get hit by his claws.

“You drive,” you tell Jean and lean your hip towards him. He easily fishes the car keys out of your back pocket.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to keep him,” Jean sighs. “You work so much you’d barely have time to take care of a cat.”

“Don’t be dumb. I’m taking him to a shelter,” you sigh. Sitting down on the passenger seat, you dare to open the bundle of blankets just enough to check on the cat.

You don’t like trash-talking animals, but you’ve got to admit to yourself it’s the most pitiful-looking cat you’ve ever seen.

He’s skin and bones, with patches of fur missing from his short, black and white coat. His yellow eyes are wide, and he hisses at you as soon as he emerges from the blankets. You note one of his canine teeth is snapped in half.

You keep him secured down with the blankets and look over him. He doesn’t fight you too hard, which leads you to believe he’s not feral. He was probably someone’s pet at some point.

“I’ll take him to the shelter after the meeting,” you decide. It’s still January, so the car is nice and cool yet warmer than the outside air.

At your command, Jean stops at a corner store. You grab a can of tuna and some bottled water, and as you park in front of the station, you place the food and water on the floor and move the blanket-covered cat to the backseat.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell the wary-looking cat. Not that he can understand you.

You stride back inside with Jean, and as you step inside the dully coloured meeting room, it doesn’t take a second for Woermann to open his big mouth.

“You are almost ten minutes late. Kirstein, Reader, my time is valuable. What took you so long?” he demands. Inside, Hange and Armin are already sitting down with Darius Zackly, the Police Chief.

“Next time, I’ll be forced to give you a formal warning. The Police Chief has limited time and to keep him waiting-”

“It’s quite alright, Woermann,” Darius Zackly calmly cuts in. “So, this meeting is in regard to those serial murders.”

He looks over the reports he printed out earlier.

“Any new leads?”

“We found a message folded between the Bible in Room 1912 of the Golden Green Hotel,” you explain and take out the plastic bag where you slipped the note.

“It’s coded and consists of nothing but zeroes and ones.”

“Binary,” Armin informs you without missing a beat as he leans to take a look. “It’s commonly used with computers.”

“Great, the killer is a nerd,” you mutter to yourself. That makes things harder because you are clueless about computers.

“Let’s send these to our engineers for decryption, then,” Jean says. “It’s probably some kind of message to the cops. Maybe a taunt.”

“If we’re dealing with someone tech-oriented, can we at least get an engineer in our team?” you try, but Woermann’s gleefully smug look immediately tells you it’s in vain.

“Do you mean you can’t handle this on your own? Maybe we did overestimate you after all. Can’t that serial killer friend of yours help?”

“He’s been locked up for a while, I doubt he’s ever seen a computer in his life,” you mutter but drop it. Even if you beg, Woermann will not give you more manpower. You’ve tried and failed before.

“Are you any closer to cracking the rest of the clues?” Darius Zackly asks calmly. You shake your head.

“I’ll begin working on them while the message is being translated.”

“Very well. Keep your affiliation with Levi Ackerman off the press,” he orders. You look at his expressionless face. You never spent enough time with Police Chief Zackly to figure him out. He always seems busy and he usually just pops by in these meetings to confirm the situation and leave.

But, he’s much more civil than Woermann which in itself is an improvement.

And, by the looks of it, he doesn’t particularly mind that you went to Levi for help. He gets up and excuses himself, having gathered what he came for.

“Now then,” Woermann turns to Hange and Armin. “Anything I should know regarding the autopsies or evidence?”

“I’ve turned in everything I have,” Hange informs the rest. Armin nods.

“Oh? Because judging by the fact that you’ve blatantly prioritized this case over other, much more pressing work, I would’ve assumed you’ve come close to cracking the case,” Woermann hums ominously.

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. This again.

“Well, this is a high-risk killer. Meaning he’s likely to strike again. So, I thought-”

Armin is cut off.

“Worrying about that is Detective Reader’s job. You still haven’t delivered the autopsy on Manager Anderson’s son.”

“Well, I have done a brief examination and it’s quite evident it was a suicide. Plus, I still haven’t determined whether Emily Johns’ body was mutilated before or after her death-”

“Does that truly matter?” Woermann sighs. “Keep your head in the game and focus on Phil Anderson’s son. Same with you, Zoë, don’t get so invested in this case that you forget other cases. You, get that code translated by tomorrow. I’ll have someone send you means to crack the code,” he points at you.

“You- you mean I can’t as much as get an engineer to do it?” you ask, astonished.

“Our engineers are busy with more urgent things.”

“Sir, this is a serial killer. He _will_ kill again and if we don’t act quickly-”

“If you have no leads, this piece of paper isn’t going to help you. Did you ask around Pinecrest?”

“Jean did, but the girls there don’t want to talk. They don’t trust us.”

“Well then, maybe these people don’t want to be helped. If they’re not going to cooperate how are we supposed to protect them?” Woermann snorts and his face makes you pissed.

“Sir, the police have never done much to protect them. All we do is pick them up and charge them with petty crime when we should be helping them get off the streets.”

“Well then, maybe you should go in there and tell them you’re trying to help,” he replies with a nonchalant shrug.

“Why would they listen to me when they didn’t listen to Jean?”

“Perhaps they’d be more inclined to listen to someone more of their… Caliber.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not from here. They’ve never seen me in their lives, they’re not going to trust me just because I’m a-”

“Then that’s too bad,” he disregards you and gets up. “Keep working on the case, report any breakthroughs to me. And you heard what the Chief said, don’t let your cozy relations to that serial killer leak to the public. If you initiate a scandal, you will be fired.”

With that, he marches off. As soon as the door slams closed after him, you let out a low growl and reach into your pocket for a cigarette.

“I want to strangle him,” you mutter.

“No one blames you for that,” Hange sighs and gets up as well. She and Armin both give you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as they walk past you to the door.

“I know a few guys who work in the engineering department. I’ll see what I can do about getting that code translated,” Hange promises. You light your cigarette and give her a tired smile.

“Thanks, Hange.”

They leave, and you’re left with Jean. He looks as the storm cloud slowly gathers over your head.

“Maybe he’s right, you know. Maybe they will listen to you. You’re a woman, you know more of what they’re going through.”

“I can always try,” you sigh as you blow out some smoke. “But I’ve about had it with Woermann. Power-tripping asshole.”

“He was just promoted; he’s aching to prove his name by solving high-publicity cases. Yours hardly makes the headlines.”

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush; the fact it doesn’t is fucked up,” you breathe through your teeth.

“It is.“

“I’m this close to quitting, you know that?” you tell him and use the hand you’re smoking with to show him the distance between your thumb and index finger.

“You won’t quit,” Jean huffs. “You’re too damn proud to.”

“I know,” you smile joylessly at your stubbornness. “Well, I’m out of here. I have someone waiting for me.”

By the time you get back to your car, you see the cat has calmed down a little. Sitting in the backseat, he hasn’t touched the food.

You sit down in the driver’s seat and glance at the cat through the rearview mirror.

“Don’t even think of doing anything dumb like clawing at me while I’m driving,” you warn him and then start making your way towards the East Charlotte Shelter. It’s the closest to your place.

The building is grey and uninviting and as you step inside, you can hear the non-stop barking of stressed dogs, the screeching of birds and all sorts of other, loud noises that instantly make your ears hurt.

You look at the cat, who you once again scooped inside the blanket.

There’s a counter at the front, and the worker behind it leans forward when she sees you. She glances at the badge, still hanging from your neck, and hums. Behind her is a heavy metal door, without a doubt leading to the back room where the rows of cages with the animals are.

“What can I do for you, officer?” she asks with a thick Southern accent. It immediately reminds you of your hometown. She’s rather young and looks well-meaning enough.

“A cat. Found him on the streets.”

You place the lump on the counter and reveal the cat inside. He’s trembling head to toe. The employee gives him a prolonged look before sighing deeply as if she knows something you don’t.

“Alright then. I’ll take him to the back. Thank you for bringing him here.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” you ask. The employee sighs again.

“We’ll check to see if he’s been reported missing, which probably isn’t the case. Then, he’ll be placed in holding and if he’s not reclaimed or adopted within two weeks… Well, you know.”

That makes you pause. You look at the cat. He’s cowering on the counter, releasing pitiful little hisses. He hasn’t tried to claw at you once.

“What are his chances of being adopted?” you ask apprehensively. The worker leans in to do a brief check. She looks inside the cat’s mouth and checks his eyes.

“He’s old. Over 10, maybe even around 15. He would need medical assistance, special food thanks to the tooth damage and frankly, he doesn’t look all that appealing. People want kittens or young cats. If you want my honest assessment, there’s zero chance anyone will adopt this cat.”

“So, you’ll be putting him to sleep in two weeks?” you ask, a little helplessly at that.

“Most likely. Nothing we can do; we have too little space and too many animals.”

“I see…” you trail off thoughtfully. You think through your acquaintances, but none of them strike you as available to look after this cat.

“Would you be interested in…?”

“I can’t,” you sigh. “I’m a detective trying to crack a serial murder case. I’m hardly ever home. Sometimes I’m at work for days in a row,” you explain with a wince.

“I see. That’s too bad.”

The employee gently moves the cat off the blanket and hands it to you. You give the cat one last look. He’s glancing around, nervous, and whenever the employee’s hand strays too close to him, he hisses. Yet, even you can tell he’s not going to bite or scratch anyone. He’s far too feeble to.

You give him an apologetic smile and turn to walk away.

You get as far as halfway through the parking lot before you stop, take a deep breath and curse at yourself.

-

When you get home a couple of hours later, the trunk of your car is filled with stuff. A litter box, some toys, a cat tree, bowls, a bag of cat food that cost more than your month’s worth of groceries.

From inside a carrier you bought from the pet store, the cat is looking at you, his yellow eyes wide and scared.

You have to make three trips back to the car to get everything out. Before you let the cat out, you clean up your apartment a little. You place the small cat tree in the living room corner next to the bulky television, you put the litter box in the bathroom and a bowl of high-protein food as well as water on the ground by the kitchen counter.

Then, you place the carrier on the couch and open it.

You visited the vet before you visited the pet store. You found out the cat is around 14 years old and that the reason he hasn’t tried to swipe at you is that he’s declawed.

You need to take him back next week to remove the snapped tooth. Aside from that, he needs high-protein food, not only to fix his patchy fur but because apparently, his kidneys are also malfunctioning.

He’s an old, sickly cat who’s probably been on his own for years.

“Why did I bring that furball home, now I can’t even smoke inside,” you mutter to yourself and slump down on the couch next to the carrier. The cat is too scared to come out.

Not that you can blame him.

You feel tired as you skip in the shower and get ready for bed. When you walk to your bedroom, the cat is still in the carrier.

You leave him there and go to sleep.

The next morning you wake up to a sound of something crashing. You open your groggy eyes and glance at the alarm clock.

It’s only 5:30.

You sit up and as you locate the source of the sound, you let out a long-suffering sigh. The cat dropped your phone on the ground as he jumped on the bedside table.

He looks at you, and he seems a lot more curious and less cautious now. When you offer him a hand, however, he flinches, jumps off the table and disappears into the kitchen.

You look around your messy bedroom and move to pick up the phone. A visit to the bathroom tells you that the cat does know how to use a litterbox.

That’s a relief, saves you a few headaches. You clean it out and as you go to the kitchen to make yourself some coffee, you see he still hasn’t touched his food.

It’s probably because of the tooth.

You eye him over your mug as he jumps on the table and shyly sniffs the coffee.

“You’d better behave while I’m gone,” you tell him. “Because I won’t be home until late. I need to drive all the way to Troy after work.”

Without a doubt, whatever you uncover from that message is going to be worth analyzing with Levi.

-

After work, you drop by home to make sure the cat hasn’t turned on the stove or done anything else catastrophic before making your way to the prison. The cat wanders closer when you come in but doesn’t let you touch him yet.

As you arrive at the prison, it’s already a bit past the agreed time. You hurry in, your heels making loud clacking sounds against the floor as you rush through the empty, fluorescent-lit corridors.

Levi’s already waiting for you, and his eyebrows are a little furrowed.

You sit down and push your jacket off, onto the back of the chair.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

“In the future, please come within ten minutes of our agreed time or I’ll consider our session cancelled,” Levi says. He looks just a little unhappy and crosses his legs impatiently.

“I had to drop by home and the traffic was horrible,” you explain with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disrespect you.”

Levi narrows his eyes, thinking through it.

“Very well, then. But in the future, try not to be late. My time is limited. What did you want to discuss?”

“We retrieved a piece of paper from the Golden Green Hotel. It had binary code on it which, when translated, turned out to be a snippet of a larger text. I tried to bring the original note here but I wasn’t allowed,” you explain and take out the translation you typed out.

Levi takes it without a word. You watch as his eyes flicker over the text.

“ _, thus, we can clearly see that these are creatures of inferior desing, intellectually incapable of independent thought and every bit pathetic enough to question whether they should even be called human beings. As proof,”_ Levi reads out loud.

“And that’s all the note contained,” you tell him. “It’s just a part of a bigger whole. It’s probably a manifesto.”

“The rest of it is probably meant to be discovered through the hints.”

“Yeah,” you sigh and light a cigarette. “Cocky bastard, wasting our resources making us hunt all over the city for his manifesto. He’s probably sitting back with a smile and thinking we’re just aching to hear whatever hateful stuff he wants to spew,” you growl to yourself.

Of course, you have to do it. He could’ve been sloppy with some of the notes and left clues behind. Fingerprints, witnesses, whatnot. You can’t just not pursue his manifesto, however much you hate giving it the time of day.

“Any info from the hotel?” Levi asks, eyes still on the paper.

“He sent the victim to place the note. Hotel staff don’t remember the details clearly but said she insisted on a room from the first floor and didn’t seem shaken or afraid. She was probably promised some extra cash to do that before her murder and since she couldn’t read the binary the message was in, she didn’t know to be scared.”

“I see. So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About whom he’s speaking of here.”

“Could be a number of things. People of color, women, prostitutes, he doesn’t specify here who he’s talking about.“

“What do you think?” he asks and places the paper down. His calm eyes meet yours and you immediately feel a bit more on edge.

Levi always unnerves you a little.

“I’m not sure. My gut says he’s the whole package; racist, sexist and classist.”

“Wouldn’t be too surprising. What was the first victim’s clue? Getting the first extract next would provide much-needed context.”

“ _’1844 gunshot for the little bitch’_ ,” you read from the case file.

“Anything interesting that happened in 1844?”

“Nope. Unless you consider the first usage of nitrous oxide in dental medicine to be a noteworthy event,” you mutter and stump out your cigarette.

“I see. It might be a while until we crack these hints. A better option might be to bait him,” Levi muses out loud. He places his hands on the table and leans in a little.

“Bait him? How?”

“Well, by the look of this pretentious snippet of a manifesto, he wants to be heard and he wants the eyes of the world on himself. If you baited him by using the press by stating that you’re looking for a racist-sexist-classist, he might just feel compelled to correct the mistake should there be any.”

“Giving him press is probably what he’s reaching for. Do we really want to give him what he wants?” you point out.

“The lack of press coverage has done nothing to carve his appetite for murder so far.”

“That’s true. But we run into another problem. No newspaper is interested in our case. Even if I held a press conference or gave an interview, I doubt any major newspaper would cover it.”

“That can be arranged. Give me a pen and paper, please.”

You reach for your suitcase and take out your notebook and a ballpoint pen. You can’t help but notice Levi lets his slender fingers brush over yours when he takes it from you.

As a kneejerk reaction, you gasp and yank your hand away, dropping the pen and notebook in the process.

Levi merely gives you a small, amused look and picks up the pen. Without addressing what just happened in any way, he writes down a name.

“Petra Ral of the Charlotte Observer. She covered my case extensively and is a bit of a true-crime buff. She should take an interest in an exclusive interview.”

You look over the paper.

“I’ll look into it. But it’s been quite some years since you were convicted, I don’t know if she’s still in business.”

“She is. I read the Charlotte Observer quite often, and she still writes for it,” Levi says. You hum thoughtfully.

“Alright, then. Thank you for your assistance.”

“May I ask you something, Victoria?” Levi suddenly speaks up. He leans back on the cheap metal chair and crosses his legs.

“What is it?”

“Why did you stop by home before coming here?”

“Excuse me?” You’re a little taken aback.

“Usually you arrive here earlier and come prepared. Why did you need to stop by your home?”

That’s hardly Levi’s business, but you suppose there’s nothing bad about letting him know.

“I needed to check on my cat.”

“I did not know you had a pet. You always struck me as the lonely kind.”

“Thanks,” you answer dryly.

“No need to thank me,” he disregards. “So, you have a cat.”

“Well, now I do,” you mutter. That catches his interest.

“What do you mean?”

“I picked him up from the streets.”

“Oh?” Levi’s eyes turn a little more intrigued. “Why did you keep it?”

“I didn’t plan to, but at the shelter, they said he’d probably be put down because he’s old and sick. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“Why not?”

“…What?”

“Why could you not leave the cat at the shelter?”

“They were going to kill him,” you say, a little confused. Levi looks unfazed.

“They probably kill thousands of cats in that shelter every year. Why latch onto that one?”

“Because I’m the one who found him and brought him there,” you try to rationalize.

“So, if it was someone else who brought him in and you witnessed that whole exchange as an outsider, you wouldn’t have taken him in?”

You feel like Levi’s testing you. Or at least, assessing you. On what, you have no clue.

“I don’t know. Probably not. But in that situation, I felt responsible.”

“So, it was a feeling of responsibility, not sympathy?”

“Well, I did feel bad for him. Poor thing was nearly hairless, skin and bones and looked scared for his life.”

“So, you immediately decided to take him in when his alternative fate was revealed to you?”

“No. I said no, almost made it to my car but then had to stop and go back.”

“What made you go back?” Levi keeps pressing, and the look in his eyes is oddly compelling. You feel a little hypnotized as if telling him to stop prying isn’t even an option.

“I got the image of him on a vet’s table, trembling from head to toe as the vet approaches him with a syringe.” The mental image still makes you feel gut-punched with an array of emotions. The pain in your eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.

Levi places his hands on his lap and leans back.

“And then?”

“I felt bad.” You frown as the questions keep coming.

“Why did you feel bad, Victoria?”

“Because he was alone, scared and hadn’t probably felt a loving touch in years, and his last experience would be in a cold, sterile room, still just as alone and scared.”

“Ah, so sympathy. Did you feel responsible for his fate?”

“Somewhat, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because had I never caught him from that bush, he would’ve still been free and alive.”

“So, what made you go back? Was it guilt or sympathy?”

“Both? My feelings are not a binary, I can feel more than one at a time, you know.”

The corners of Levi’s eyes turn upwards.

“A large emotional palette. How interesting.”

“Are you trying to say you can’t feel more than one feeling at once?”

At that, Levi chuckles. Suddenly, his eyes change. Still intrigued and honed in on you, they turn so cold you feel your body freeze.

“No. I’m saying I feel none. And people who feel intensely, so intensely it clouds their judgment, they fascinate me.”

Suddenly, you feel your fight or flight kick in. Your instincts once again tell you to run. And just like every other time this has happened, you stay rooted and keep the dialogue going.

“What do you mean by ‘fascinate’?” you ask with a quiet, tense voice.

“Don’t worry, Victoria. I’m not going to hurt you. I will not treat you with anything but respect. You’re my honored guest, after all.”

You feel a shudder run down your spine then. Equal parts apprehensive and fascinated, you don’t know whether to lean in or lean back.

“Then, what do you mean by fascination?” you ask.

Levi smirks a little and says nothing.

The long silence that follows unsettles you so much that when you finish driving home two hours later and slump on the couch, you’re still so lost in thought that you don’t notice when the cat skulks closer to meekly sniff your leg and then very shyly rubs against it once.

Maybe you should take everyone’s advice and just run for it. Never go back to Troy, never see Levi again.

Yet something tells you he wouldn’t let you go so easily. And something tells you that even if you go, he will never leave your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry for the long silence. If you follow my other fics you already know that I had to take a break to finish my degree but in case you don't: I had to take a break in April to finish my degree. Now I'm all done with school and having my summer vacation until June ^^
> 
> I did, however, commission some fanart while I was gone, just to have a little something to give you when I return. So lo and behold, Levi and Reader!
> 
> This chapter had some advancements. Reader got another clue and a cat. She really should name it though. And Levi's just being creepy old Levi. Serial killers gonna serial killer I guess.
> 
> I hope you're all staying healthy and doing fine despite all that's going on. Comments always make my day and hive me the drive to keep writing, so if you have time, by all means tell me what you thought of the chapter or the fanart! :)
> 
> Until next time!


	4. Winter 2020: Special Side Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is just a light little side story I wrote for the holidays! Don't consider it too canon and it probably won't be referred to anywhere else in the following chapters!**

The only thing indicating anyone at the Southern Correctional Institution even knows it’s Christmas is the small, plastic and absolutely pathetic-looking Christmas tree that stands in the corner of the guards’ office.

As you’re escorted through the clinical, fluorescent-lit corridors, you can feel the dark-haired guard wants to turn and ask. The way he fidgets and gives you uneasy glances gives him away.

It’s okay. You can do that for him.

“You want to ask why I’m here on Christmas Eve of all days and not home with my family.”

He flinches.

“Oh, no. Miss, not at all, I-”

“My family lives far. They won’t be here until tomorrow morning.”

“I see.”

Levi’s already waiting for you as you’re led into the interrogation room. Sitting by the table, as impeccable as always, he gives you a calm nod.

“Good evening, Victoria.“

“Evening,” you say and sit down across from him. “I don’t have a whole lot to discuss today, just a few new tips that were called in to the hotline. They seem to be bogus to me.”

He nods. You can’t help but give him a curious look. It’s Christmas. Does he have anyone to visit him tomorrow?

He doesn’t look any different from usual. As you take out the manuscripts of the calls, he takes them with gentle hands and looks over them.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Ackerman,” you finally say.

“I don’t think I’ve ever declined a request to meet from you. Why would this be any different?” he asks, eyes never leaving the paper.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have anyone to visit you or anyone to call?”

“No.”

You look a bit sad then. Granted, Levi is here for a reason, but it still makes you feel oddly lonely for him.

You make up your mind in a split second.

You reach for your bag and take out a small present.

You got it from work and it’s nothing fancy, just a pack of cinnamon-infused tea. That’s what they give you every year.

“Here. You can have this.”

Immediately, Levi’s eyes turn suspicious.

“Are you trying to pity me, Victoria?”

“There’s a difference between pity and compassion, Mr. Ackerman.”

Slowly, he takes the present. His hands are clearly unaccustomed to opening gift wraps and you watch as he fumbles just a little bit with it.

When his eyes land on the tea, they widen. For a precious second, he looks animate and excited like a child on Christmas Day. Then, as if realising where he is and who he’s with, he quickly turns stony again.

He clears his throat. Then, he pushes the tea pack aside, trying to pretend like he has only passing interest in it.

“Thank you, Victoria.”

You lean your cheek into your hand and look at him curiously.

“When is the last time you got a Christmas present, Mr. Ackerman?”

His sharp eyes give you a long look.

“...fourteen years,” he finally admits.

At that, you smile sadly. You can absolutely judge Levi for all he’s done to end up here, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the wave of compassion that takes over you.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Ackerman.”

“...Yeah.”

As you resume work, you catch Levi’s eyes flickering to the pack of tea more than once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone!
> 
> Also, Prowling Game WILL go back to the drawing board come January ^^ I hope you're looking forward to that fic resuming after such a long time!


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